


Fudge Theory

by cocoartist



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst, Christmas, Christmas Always Makes Me Cry, Environmentalism, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff, Humor, Kissing, Mutual Pining, New Beginnings, Political Theory, Romance, dreading going home for christmas, professor & student but everyone is very grown up, single at Christmas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:55:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27914872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cocoartist/pseuds/cocoartist
Summary: “I’m gonna kiss you now,” he tells her.“You’ll have to,” she says. “It would be very improper for me to make any advances.”Part of 'A Little Light Pining'.
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Male Character
Comments: 63
Kudos: 125
Collections: A Little Light Pining





	Fudge Theory

**Author's Note:**

> MERRY FESTIVE PERIOD. 
> 
> 1\. This is my contribution to [A Little Light Pining](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/alittlelightpining), a collaborative collection of short holiday romances 
> 
> 2\. Thanks so much to olivieblake for being the brilliance behind it and to her, Colubrina, and provocative_envy for making world-building fun and easy and hilarious and for their gorgeous stories. 
> 
> 3\. My trope is Academic Hard-Ons and it's loosely inspired by _Christmas Makes Me Cry_ by Kacey Musgraves
> 
> I hope it delights!!
> 
> * * *

_i._

> _In conclusion, nudge theory is a symptom of the growing power of the on-going freedom discourse - which has become the primary enemy to democracy today - and allows governments to escape doing the job we appointed them to do._

It’s the best paper she’s marked all term, with a fluent argument, comprehensive research, and forceful writing. She doesn’t know whose it is. Dr Beatrice Merryweather has all her students submit them anonymously to remove any bias. She’d designed the submission software herself back in her Oxford days. It’s even more important here: this country is such a mess politically and socially - she’s not taking any chances. Besides, it appeals to her own sense of fair play. 

But there were only eight people on that seminar course. She’d thought she knew them pretty well. Now she thinks at least one of them was smarter than she’d given any of them credit for. 

Her phone lights up with a message from her sister Polly asking for flight details. Beatrice ignores it: she sent them weeks ago. Polly can find them. Now, three days away from going home, she wishes she’d made up an excuse about staying to work on her book proposal. 

She grades the essay, enters the almost-perfect score in the system, and finishes her comments at the bottom. It doesn’t distract her. 

Visions of being home dance across her gaze. It will be a full house this year: Polly and her fiancé and their older brother Alfie with his family. There will be the annual trip to the pub on Christmas Eve to catch up with all their school friends, also back home for the holidays. Then there will be all the cousins on Boxing Day, all paired up or too young to do so, and more family friends with pitying glances to be warded against in the dragging days of lunches and drinks parties and walks until New Years’ Eve. 

Beatrice lays her head down on her desk, trying not to cry at the thought of doing all that alone. She had done it all alone before, surely. But back then she hadn’t been over thirty with a broken engagement and an even more broken heart. 

Henry had been beside her for all those things for nine years. And now he’s in London fucking everything that moves, probably, and she’s freezing her arse off in the northeastern U.S. hoping a blizzard will mean she can miss her flight and spend a lonely holiday alone in her lonely cottage on an empty campus. It’s too expensive to justify cancelling the flight so all she can do is hope for a miracle. 

The last of her marking done, Beatrice pulls on her long charcoal overcoat, severely cut, and is just standing when a knock comes at the door. 

Dr Gillespie (handsome, forty-something, constantly on the phone to his lawyer about alimony payments in the staff room when she’s trying to read) puts his head around her door. 

“Looking forward to tonight Beatrice,” he says, “what time do you want us? Perhaps I should come early to help...” 

“Any time after six is fine, Andrew.”

“A Port and Policy Party!” His tone is jovial and knowing. “Even Soames has never had one of those. You’re really bringing the dreaming spires to our humble Ivy, aren’t you?” 

She grants him a tight smile. The Port and Policy thing had been a joke. He’s obviously googled it. She hopes there won’t be too much policy, and she certainly won’t be serving port. Sometimes she thinks they take her attempts to poke fun at herself so seriously she might poke an eye out. Maybe it’s her accent. 

Besides, there’s nothing humble about Arbor College. 

“Will he be coming tonight?” Gillespie asks, eyebrow arching. Professor Soames is the reason Beatrice has a job at the prestigious faculty at all. Once upon a time he’d been her supervisor. He’d brought her across to join the new Center on Critical Social and Political Theory just when she most needed a change. 

“I have no idea,” she lies, as she winds her dark blue scarf around her neck. It’s a short walk to her cottage but it’s so cold here, far colder than it ever gets at home. She’s lucky to have it: some members of staff wait as long for campus housing as they do for tenure. But then, most of them are queueing up for the more family-friendly places with more than one small bedroom. It’s also, she discovered too late, very close to one of the college’s most notorious student houses: The Pines, known for throwing the best parties on campus. 

Beatrice doesn’t sleep well anyway and the only thing the late night music ever does is emphasise her loneliness. She’s already thinking of the walk there, around the snowy lawns, through the neo-Gothic arch and past the bell tower, up the hill with its view across the lake and the forest-blanketed hills. 

She has to take her hair out of its customary tight bun to put her hat on and she feels Andrew’s eyes lingering uncomfortably on her as she lets it down. She pulls on the hat quickly. 

He finally takes the hint when she picks up her briefcase meaningfully and lets her step out of the office. She’s almost as tall as him. She thinks he might be aiming to start some sort of dalliance with her that night and wonders if she’s interested. It’s been a while, to say the least. She’s tried, but she feels she missed a lesson on how to flirt, how to enjoy a kiss from a relative-but-not-total-stranger. She wonders if being with one person for her entire adult life has ruined her. If she’ll ever be able to just slide into bed with someone that’s between a one night stand and the love of her life. 

Beatrice puts the sheaf of essays in the pigeonhole for students to collect to see their feedback. She expects most of them will still be there in January. The course is done, the feedback no longer interesting. On the bottom of the final one she was tempted to write: _This is so good I might send it to my ex._ Henry works for the Institute of Government, nicknamed the nudge unit, doing exactly what this essay has just brilliantly argued against. But she didn’t. Instead, she’s put a nudge: _Coffee’s on me if you come and identify yourself._

It’s not publishable. Yet. That bunch of students might be done with her area of Political Science for now, but she’s not above a little coercion. 

_ii._

_There’s a party at Pine House tonight_

**So?**

_There’s this sophomore who she said she’ll be there_

**Where did you even meet a sophomore?**

_I was her TA_

**Damien.**

_Asshole it’s fine, semester’s over_

_She’s 20_

_I’m 25_

_That’s ok right_

_Right?_

_Hey_

_Please come_

_I think you have to wear a Christmas sweater_

Nathaniel replies by sending a link to a Guardian article about how the Christmas sweater trend is contributing to fast fashion waste, but Damien’s next message comes too quickly for him to have opened the article, which is a shame. Nathaniel has had the same Christmas sweater for the past seven years. It’s wool, of course. He doesn’t wear plastic fibres if he can help it. 

_You might even meet a girl your own age_

**I’ve got other plans,** he types back, and slides his phone back into his pocket, irritated. He’s more likely to meet a girl his brother’s age at any party there. Or his actual brother. And he’s not lying: Nathaniel is standing in the local liquor store trying to decide what to take as a hostess gift for someone like Professor Merryweather. He’s uncomfortably aware he’s overthinking it; the first bottle of pinot noir he’d picked up had pleased the merchant without being obnoxious enough to impress his father. 

He’s only had a few seminars with her but she’s attractive for a professor - especially a politics professor. On top of that, he finds her English accent sexy and her slightly husky voice at odds with her severe appearance: dark hair scraped back, glasses, and a slightly oversized pantsuit. It’s the same every time he sees her. She varies the pantsuit colours. Blue, green, grey, burgundy. Nothing else. He’s caught himself wondering more than once at the shape beneath. 

But she’s not his professor anymore. He puts the bottle back on the shelf and picks up a bottle of champagne. It’s almost Christmas, after all, and he’s just had his best mark of the term. 

A group of hockey players pass him on their way into the liquor store, stamping the snow off their boots. They’re teasing the smallest one and telling him to wait outside, he’s too young. He’s grinning good-naturedly but he looks like he’s got something else on his mind. A few years ago Nathanial would have been off to whatever party they’re heading to. Now, they just make him feel a bit old. He sets off to his staid post-graduate event without regrets. 

The leaves have all blown off the ivy and it sprawls and climbs like little skeletons across the old stone of the campus buildings. He’d annoyed his parents by spending his undergraduate years in California (“but you’re a _legacy_ Nathaniel”) but somehow he’s ended up here anyway. He wonders who he’d have grown into if he’d come here as a kid. He supposes he’d be more like Ben. Maybe he’ll ask him next time the kid goes quiet at a family dinner. 

Her house is small and charming, with a view out to the forest clad hills and the lake. He gets his phone out to look at the map and see if he can find his cabin from there. He gets all turned around by the curves of the hill. He thinks he can make out the spot, but it’s hard to tell in the dark. 

Damien: _Are you going to that faculty drinks thing? I was gonna swing by before the other party._

Nathaniel grins. Damien likes to have his cake and eat it and by cake he means taking advantage of the faculty-funded booze before heading off to meet the pretty undergraduate he’s been crushing on for at least a month. 

**I’m already here,** he replies and knocks on the door. He can hear music and someone laughing inside. It’s always a relief not to be the first one at something like this. 

“Are you going in or what, Cole?” 

He turns and sees Nora Leung, one of Merryweather’s PHD students. 

“I’m not just walking into someone else’s house, Leung, honestly. Who raised you?” 

“What did you bring?” she asks nosily, eyeing the bottle. 

“Champagne, you?”

“Fuck’s sake. Home-made fudge.”

“Cute.” 

A man opens the door and he realises it’s his supervisor. 

“Ah, Nathaniel and Nora!” Andrew Gillespie beams. “Come on in.” 

He doesn’t like Andew much. The man keeps pushing him to read some real right-wing libertarian nonsense. He’s got a Biden 2020 sticker in his car, but Nathaniel wonders if it’s there for show. He wonders if he’s dating Merryweather. He nods in greeting and steps past him, curious, into the kitchen. 

He doesn’t recognise her for a moment. Her hair is loose, dark and thick and shining, tumbling down her back. She’s turned away, opening a bottle of wine. No wonder she ties it up, he thinks. No wonder she hides behind her pantsuits. She’s in a green sweater dress the colour of the trees around his cabin, and there’s an exciting glimpse of thigh between where her boots end and her dress starts. She turns around. She’s gorgeous. 

“For you,” he says, handing her the bottle. 

“I’ll hide it in the back of the fridge,” she tells him with an electric smile. She’s eye-to-eye with him in those boots. Her eyes are green too. “It’s much too nice for this lot.” 

He smiles back, suddenly glad he came. 

  
  


_iii._

The evening has turned into somewhat more of a party than she expected. One of her post-grad students has made a lethal punch in her tiny living room, Damien Birch is making mulled wine in the kitchen, Andrew Gillespie is trying to schmooze Professor Soames in the hallway and she’s standing outside in her warmest coat watching the snow fall, drinking very good champagne out of the bottle with Nathaniel Cole. 

It’s 11pm. She’s not sure how this happened - but she does know she shouldn’t like it so much. 

“How old are you?” she blurts out. 

He grins down at her. “If you’re asking me that question, it means you’re not going to be mad when I try and kiss you in about an hour’s time,” he tells her. His voice is low and smooth, with no trace of where in the U.S. he’s from. 

Beatrice examines her feelings on this threat of a kiss. She thinks he’s a cheeky little shit and she tells him that, but then she hands him the bottle instead of going inside. 

She knows how it _started_ : he walked in dressed like an adult for once and gave her the most _lingering_ look. He’s spent all term turning up to class in muddy hiking boots, a hand-knitted grey beanie, and a sage green ACLU jumper. Sometimes he wears an actual lumberjack shirt like it’s still 2014. She’d never noticed how tall he is before. Mostly she’s noticed how argumentative he is in her seminars, that his leftist stance overly informs his arguments, and that his thesis on environmental politics means he keeps trying to reroot the discussion there. 

Then he walked into her little cottage with its half-hearted tinsel and lights, in a blue button-down shirt that matched his eyes, with his hair properly cut and looked her up and down like she’s the first gift he wants to unwrap under the tree. 

She’d covered her surprise and poured him a drink and greeted the next arrivals and he’d been chatting to Soames and then somehow they’d ended up back in the kitchen with that troublemaker Damien Birch and his terrible brandy-laced mulled wine and he was making her laugh and she’d - oh that was it. This had been her idea, hadn't it. Now they’ve been standing outside for ten minutes and she’s starting to worry she might fancy a student. 

“So,” he says, changing the subject. “Thanks for the 99%.” 

“What?” she asks, then she realises. “That was your essay?” 

“I find the surprise in your face quite insulting, Prof,” he says but he doesn’t look insulted. He looks like the smuggest, most All-American golden boy she’s ever seen. She tells him that, too. He just smiles. She thinks: _Not much fazes this man._

It’s been a while since she met a guy she couldn’t get a rise out of. 

“Oh, and I’m 28,” he adds. “Easily old enough for you to kiss, in about 55 minutes time.”

She shakes her head with a laugh. 

Somewhere nearby - she can guess where - a bass beat is pumping so loudly she’s surprised it hasn’t shaken the snow off the eaves. She can hear some sort of chanting.

“Doesn’t it bother you?” he asks. 

“Not really. I don’t sleep that well anyway.” 

The champagne is stealing all the safeguards from her tongue. Damien Birch opens the door behind them, a burst of heat following him out then quickly dissipating. It’s almost time to go in. Her down coat is losing the battle against the chill and she’s going to let him kiss her if she stays out here. 

“Thanks for a lovely evening, Beatrice,” Damien says, using her first name with a smirk. She’s stricter than most: she sticks to Dr Merryweather even with the Masters students. But like Nathaniel he’s not her student any more. Maybe she’ll drop the formality when she’s older, she thinks. Or maybe she’ll become Merryweather like Soames is almost always Soames and rarely Jack. 

“Sure you don’t wanna come to the Pine party?” he offers to Nathaniel, but there’s nothing in the question that expects a yes. 

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” he replies, unmoved. 

“Don’t fall into a snowbank in that forest of yours,” the other man returns and then he’s off, breath huffing out in a cloud of steam. 

Beatrice turns and opens the door before Nathaniel can persuade her against it. 

“I’m cold,” she says, and he follows her inside without demurring. 

  
  


_iv._

Damien’s exit sets off the slow trickle of people to their cars and by midnight Nathaniel is watching Andrew Gillespie argue with Beatrice about Libertarian Paternalism (“it’s a ridiculous fucking contraction in terms, Andrew”). He has ten minutes left to kiss her. He’s pretty sure Gillespie is gunning to stick around past the end of the party. He’s also pretty sure Beatrice isn’t interested. There’s only a few people left and, scanning the room, he has an idea. 

“Nora,” he says, “you drove, right?” 

She looks wary but pleased for a moment as she nods. She’s expecting him to ask for a lift home. A few hours ago he might’ve: she’s very pretty. But he’s made that promise now and he’s going to follow through on it if Beatrice’ll let him. 

“I’m a bit worried Gillespie drove here, you know he lives on the other side of town. I really don’t wanna lose my supervisor and he’s gone a bit past it - if you drag him out I’ll make it up to you.” 

Nora looks thoughtful. 

“What’s it worth, Cole?” 

He sighs. 

“Whatever you want. Just get him out of here.” 

She grins and casts an eye over at the debating professors. 

“Alright, but only because Beatrice is looking bored of him. You owe me a bottle of good wine. Something I can’t afford. And an introduction to that Senator Aunt of yours.”

“Done.” 

“See you around.” 

He watches Nora Leung charm Andrew Gillespie out of the door in less than three minutes. His embarrassingly expensive wristwatch tells him he has six minutes left to kiss Beatrice. He doesn’t know why it matters except that he wants her to know he’s a man of his word.

“Let me get these,” he says, picking up some of the plastic cups discarded next to her and taking them to the kitchen. 

“Oh no, Nathaniel don’t clear up,” she insists, following him out of the room of stragglers just as he’d hoped. 

“I’m going to wash them up so you can use them for your next party,” he tells her. “You shouldn’t buy single use ones.” 

She looks extremely affronted. 

“Well I know that, but they don’t sell any viable alternatives - if you look in -” 

He slides a hand into that gleaming dark hair. It’s smooth and warm against his fingers. The skin of face brushing his palm is like hot silk. She’s blushing. 

“I’m gonna kiss you now,” he tells her. 

“You’ll have to,” she says. “It would be very improper for me to make any advances.” 

It’s tentative at first, and then as electric as the smile she gave him in just this spot four hours earlier. He can’t believe she’s kissing him back; can’t believe his most hardass teacher kisses like a storm and a fireside to come home to all at once. 

She pulls away and he’s horrified to see that she’s crying. 

“I’m sorry,” she says. “It’s not you, you’re just lovely. Excuse me a moment.” 

She vanishes outside for the briefest of moments and when she comes back in she’s hidden all of the sorrow he’d seen in those stricken green eyes. It’s impressive, and he badly wants to tell her not to bother. But there are still other people in the house. He wonders if he should just leave. He starts washing up the cups to postpone the decision. 

When she comes back in he’s almost finished the kitchen. She gazes around, surprised. He doesn’t want to go, but he doesn’t want to intrude either. 

“I wanted to check you were okay,” he says. “Before I left.” 

Someone’s turned the music off in the lounge. He’s pretty sure everyone else has gone. He doesn’t want to go, but he doesn’t want to intrude either. He can hear the music from the party Damien was so excited about even inside now.

“Sorry about earlier,” she says. “You don’t have to go, if you don’t want to. I’m never going to get to sleep with that racket.”

A different sort of woman would call the campus police for the noise but she seems completely unbothered. He likes that. She’s wound so tight in so many ways, he wonders if this is the truest version of her and all the severity she puts on is just a costume to keep the world out. 

“Why don’t we go for a walk?” he suggests. 

And so they do. She looks absurdly young and adorable in her wooly hat and snow boots. The music is even louder outside but the flakes are still meandering down gently and it’s a beautiful night. The wind has dropped, taking the bitterness away. 

“I always waited desperately for snow when I was a kid,” she says. “Now I’m almost fed up with it.” 

“Where did you grow up?” 

“You won’t know it.”

“Try me.”

“Near Trowbridge in Wiltshire.” 

“You’re right,” he says, “I don’t know it.”

So she tells him about it. It all sounds very charming to him, but she assures him it’s far less idyllic than it sounds. He doubts it. 

“Are you going back for the holidays?” 

“Yeah,” she says. “I’m flying on the 15th.”

Only three days to make an impression, he thinks, and wonders why he’s so sure he wants to. It was only one kiss. But then, he’s been crushing on her all term. 

They walk past the party at the Pines. People have spilled out onto the lawn, red cups littered everywhere. He sighs. He spots his younger brother Benjamin in a ridiculous sweater that lights up, talking to some girl. He wonders which one of them will be in a worse state for their mother’s Advent Gala the following night. 

They’re halfway to his house before she notices that they’ve left the campus and asks where they’re heading. He’d been so caught up in talking to her he hadn’t really noticed his feet following the familiar walk. 

“I guess I was taking you home,” he admits ruefully. “I live up in the woods.” 

“Are you going to take me out to the forest to kill me, Nathaniel Cole?” 

“Man’s gotta eat,” he agrees placidly and she laughs. He likes the sound of it. 

“You’re not how I thought you’d be,” he says, using his phone light to guide them as they leave the road and the streetlights behind and turn onto the track to his house. 

The forestry company pays him to use it as access by keeping it maintained, but the snow is icy underfoot and they’re quiet for a while. The trees loom up either side. He knows at the top it's a miracle of a view, and he’s impressed that she’s patient enough to find out rather than ask where they’re going. They’ve been walking for at least 45 minutes. 

“I sort of thought you were going to take that somewhere,” she says after a moment. “You’re not who I thought you were either by the way, though I’m not sure I’ve worked out what you _are_ yet.” 

“You’re pretty intimidating,” he explains. “Probably the toughest class I’ve ever had. You really push people. But outside class you seem…” he waves a hand, “pretty chill I guess.” 

There’s one more bend and they’ll be at the top of the hill. Nathaniel doesn’t say it but he loves this forest, not the shitty track to walk up but once you’re in it properly. The snow bounces light everywhere, even at night. If there’s a big moon he doesn’t even need a torch to walk through them at night. The evergreen trees keep the colour past the blaze of fall glory. There’s a path down to the lake, where he’s building a deck. He’ll take her there when the weather’s warmer. 

The cabin is in darkness, but the outline is stark against the white bank behind it, and a trail of smoke is meandering up to the open sky. 

“Wow,” Beatrice says as she follows him in. “This is amazing.” 

It is, really, he knows that. He knows he’s lucky. It’s modern, a single storey, narrower at the back and broadening out at the front, with great big glass windows that slide open onto a deck. You can see right across the lake in the day. Inside, it’s pretty simple. A small kitchen at one end of a big open plan living room, wood-burning stove in the middle to do most of the heating. 

“Thanks,” he says. “Thirsty?” 

“God yes. Do you always walk?” 

“Mostly. I drive sometimes but I like to walk.” 

She’s unashamedly looking around. He’s not surprised when she heads to the bookcase first. He sets out wine and water on the breakfast bar and watches her for a moment. She’s cast off the coat and hat and boots and she’s standing barefoot in her green dress. She really is beautiful, he thinks, and as smart as a whip. His dad would like her. Hell, even his mom would. Will, maybe. 

“How did you find this place?” 

“I bought the land and I built it,” he explains ruefully. He’s proud, of course, but now he has to explain and he doesn’t want her to write him off as just some rich kid. 

This is the truth: Nathaniel Harrington Cole III is the eldest son of Nathaniel Harrington Cole II, who is the eldest son of Nathaniel Harrington Cole I. Nathaniel Harrington Cole I was the heir of one of the country’s great oil dynasties. Nathaniel Harrington Cole II saw an opportunity before pretty much anyone else, and turned the company’s lagging fortunes around. Now, he owns the biggest green energy company in the United States. 

Nathaniel Harrington Cole III wants to right his legacy. But he reckons he can only do it by taking a seat at the table. He’s had a lot of time to think about it. 

He tells her about working on the Bernie Sanders campaign and then spending three years on an eco-farm in Brazil after he lost to Hillary Clinton. He tells her about watching what was happening there and in the U.S.. He tells her that his dad’s a capitalist not a philanthropist but he’s a useful one. 

“My dad thinks I got radicalised at Berkley,” he explains, “but I think it’s just generational you know? Like, how can we not face up to this thing. And it’s not just us - worldwide governments aren’t doing enough, corporations aren’t doing enough. It’s all being put on the individual. I wanna change that.” 

Her face is lit up with interest as he explains his plans and dreams, so he carries on. It’s weird being able to talk to someone about it, about how he worries the people with the right ideas aren’t pragmatic enough to get anything done, and the people who’re getting stuff done are ruthless bastards like his father. How angry he gets when people won’t listen. How he’s actually hopeful for the future. 

She kisses him, this time. 

_v._

When she wakes up in the morning, he’s not next to her and she’s glad to have a moment to compose herself. She’s slept well. Amazingly well. It’s so quiet here, in this strange cabin he’s built himself. What a weirdo. She’s reluctantly impressed.

She picks up her phone, clinging on to the last of its battery. The first thing she sees is a series of messages from her sister. 

**How was your party? Did you wear the green dress?**

**Send pics**

**Are you up yet?**

**Call me when you get this**

**Are you okay?**

It’s four hours ahead at home, but Polly knows that. It’s only 10am, which is much later than she usually wakes up, but Polly knows she was out. 

_I’m up now - have a lot to tell you!!_

She opens Instagram to see if anyone has posted a picture from the night before to send Polly - and she sees why her sister was messaging. It’s right there at the top of her feed, a gift from the algorithm for all those times she’s clicked through onto his profile. Henry and a beautiful, tall dark-haired woman with a ring on. She hits like, which she knows will annoy him, and sends Polly another message. 

_Holy fucking shit that didn’t take long did it?_

**Are you okay?**

_Yeah, I am actually. Better her than me._ Beatrice actually means it. Mostly. 

**She looks like you?? So weird. Anyway I’m about to go into yoga - CALL ME LATER???**

_Love you Pol. Phone about to die - and I’m not at home if you know what I mean. Details later. Don’t worry about me._

Beatrice puts on Nathaniel Cole’s shirt. His room is neat. He’s got a couple of nice paintings on the wall, a window out onto the white-and-brown-and-green of the woods behind the house. There’s a bookshelf, a built-in wardrobe, a chair and the bed. Everything is simple and beautifully made from natural materials. He told her the night before everything that could be recycled was. 

It’s rare to meet someone who lives by his principles, and she wonders if it’s annoying or charming that he knows he can only do some of it because he’s rich. 

She finds her knickers and wanders out into the main room. The view down across the lake and forests is extraordinary in daylight. It’s empty but there’s a pot of coffee and two mugs on the free-standing stove in the middle. She goes back into the bedroom and steals a pair of his jeans and two wool jumpers. She pours herself a coffee and takes it out onto the veranda. It’s on a cantilever and the effect is almost like being in a treehouse. She takes a picture of the view and posts it online. Her phone dies. 

She thinks about Henry and she feels free. 

“Morning.” 

She looks down and waves. Nathaniel Cole is stacking logs into a basket. He’s clearly been chopping them up. He is very committed to his man-of-the-woods vibe. She wonders if it’s to impress her or if he does this every day. She suspects the latter. 

A few minutes later he comes out onto the deck behind her. There’s no awkwardness in him, in the way he slides an arm around her and presses a kiss to her temple like they’ve been doing it every morning for years. 

“I like seeing you in my clothes,” he says. She smiles. It’s a line she’s heard before, but there’s an artlessness to this clever man that confuses her. 

“I need to go,” she tells him, aware she’s breaking the mood, aware she can smell the bacon he’s put on for breakfast, aware of the way he tenses. 

“Let me drive you, after breakfast,” he says and it’s less an offer than the only practical solution. She wasn’t looking forward to the hour-long walk. But she’s starting to feel panicky, starting to think _I slept with a student_ and _Henry is engaged_ and _packing_. 

“Is the needing to leave related to you getting upset last night?” he asks once she’s eaten. “Or are you regretting this?” 

She thinks about it for a moment, thinks about what would happen if she stayed for the day, for the week, if they dated. She’s not his professor any more. She’s only four years older than him. It would raise eyebrows but it wouldn’t be a scandal. She thinks about her empty cottage and the book proposal she was planning to work on and - 

“My ex-fiance got engaged. We only broke up a year ago. I was going to talk to my sister, tell her I’m not having a mental breakdown.” She pauses and looks him up and down. “No regrets. You?” 

“What a dick,” he comments and takes her phone from where she’s left it on the sideboard and plugs it in. “I think we should leave this here and go back to bed for a few more hours, don’t you? I’ve only got three days to make an impression before your flight so I’d better make the most of them.” 

He takes her very gently by the hand, and pulls her to her feet. 

“I guess I can let the world wait a little bit longer,” she agrees. 

  
  


_vi._

Nat takes her for dinner that night. He grew up an hour away from Arbor College, he tells her. He’s meant to be at a party there, but he says he doesn’t want to inflict his family on her yet. He tells them he’s working and ignores the string of subsequent messages. 

He drives her home afterwards in his self-charging hybrid and shamelessly invites himself in for coffee. They don’t have coffee. He stays the night. There’s nothing in her fridge for breakfast so they eat half the box of homemade fudge someone brought to the party, and then he goes out to get real food for them both while she packs. 

_vii._

On the third day, Nathaniel takes Beatrice to Syracuse. They have to set off at six in the morning. He’s a morning person. She is not. He makes her laugh until she’s in a good mood. She discovers he can’t sing, but will unashamedly do so while driving. Cooking, too, he tells her, and showering. It’s nice to find a flaw. He prefers to listen to audiobooks on long drives by himself to keep himself awake. He drives fast and likes to criticise other drivers in a stream of entertaining commentary. 

He leaves her with a lingering kiss that stays on her lips all the way to London. When she lands at Heathrow she sees a message from him. It’s a picture of the comment she left on his essay: _Coffee’s on me if you come and identify yourself._

He’s captioned it: _I’ll hold you to this, Bea._

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading. Don't miss the other stories in [A Little Light Pining](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/alittlelightpining)


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